Shattered
by Fatal-Breath
Summary: Set post-Christmas special. Everything that Thomas is, is slowly beginning to unravel and fall to pieces.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One:**

"_I could never give you what you want."_

Thomas lay awake, a cigarette glowing between his lips, one hand cradled behind his head. In the darkness, alone, there was nothing but Jimmy's deep blue eyes and blonde hair and naked muscled back; nothing but his skin and his scent and his voice–

_"I could never give you what you want."_

–echoing 'round and 'round inside his head, the same as it had every night since he spoke those words to a battered and beaten Thomas.

Thomas blew a stream of smoke between his lips, then rolled over and crushed out the cigarette. He watched the remaining embers fade and die out.

_"I could never give you what you want."_

He closed his eyes, and tried to close his ears against Jimmy's words. But how do you shut out what's inside you?

_"I could never give you what you want."_

"Shut up," Thomas hissed at the disembodied voice as he pulled his pillow over his head, pressing it against his ears. "Just shut up."

_"I could never give you what you want._

And in the darkness, alone, the other memories crowded in – the ones that were always there, waiting for him to surrender; the ones he wished he could cut out of himself; the ones he wished he'd never made.

_A blood-soaked bed, a bloodied razor..._

_..."How? Why are you different?"... _

_...blue, unseeing eyes..._

_ ..."I just can't see it working, can you?"..._

"Shut up."

_ ..."Because of a youthful dalliance? A few– a few weeks of madness in a London season?"..._

_ ...the screams of men wounded and dying, the smell of the trenches..._

"Please." A sob.

_ ...the spray of blood and flesh as the bullet ripped through his hand..._

_ ..."You have been twisted by nature into something foul"..._

_ ..."I could never give you what you want"..._

"Go away."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Many thanks to everyone who has already read and reviewed my first chapter. I greatly appreciate the feedback!

**Chapter Two:**

"Mr Barrow, are you all right?"

Thomas looked up from the table, unaware he had been staring at it for the past five minutes. Alfred was watching him, his brows furrowed with concern. A few weeks ago, Thomas never thought Alfred would be one to be worried about him; but there it was.

"I'm fine, Alfred. A restless night, nothing more."

Alfred watched a little longer, then returned to reading a letter sent to him from his mother. Ever since his aunt, O'Brien, had gone off with the MacClares to India–greatly upsetting Lady Crawley in the process–, Alfred had become more of his own man. And that man had decided that Thomas wasn't such a bad person, even if he was...well, you know. In fact, he rather liked Thomas, with his dry humour and standoffish ways and false arrogance.

The breakfast bells began to ring, and the servants all hurriedly got up from the table and started to their assigned tasks. Thomas was about to go upstairs when someone bumped into him from behind; and he turned to be confronted by those same blue eyes and blonde hair that he saw in his mind every night, whether he wished it or not.

"What can I do for you, Jimmy?"

Those blue eyes searched their surroundings, and after comfortably ascertaining that no one was paying them any attention, settled directly on Thomas.

"Are you sure you're all right, Mr Barrow? You don't look very well."

Thomas gave Jimmy a tense smile. "I'm fine. It's as I told Alfred: I've not been sleeping very well."

Jimmy's focus trailed to the left, and he lifted a hand to toward Thomas's cheekbone. Thomas drew back instinctively, greatly startling Jimmy.

"Sorry," he effused. "I didn't mean–. I-I just noticed how well you're healing up."

Thomas placed his own hand over where Jimmy had nearly touched. "Yes. In a few more days I suspect I'll be fit for another beating." He laughed, but cut it short when he saw that Jimmy was far from amused. "Sorry."

"It's not funny, Mr Barrow. You could have been seriously injured."

"Well, I wasn't. And there's no use dwelling on what 'could have been'." He noticed Jimmy was shifting nervously, and sighed. "What is it, Jimmy? You didn't stop me just to ask how I was."

Jimmy shrugged, then burst out, "Could I get tonight off?"

"What for?"

"The new housemaid, Alice?"

Thomas nodded. Even he had to admit she was a pretty one, with her black hair, blue eyes, and voluptuous curves.

"I want to take her out tonight."

"Have you already asked her?"

"Not yet. I was going to once I got the time off." His face fell. "Why? Do you think she'll say no?"

"I doubt the Virgin Mary herself could resist you."

There was an awkward pause.

Thomas cleared his throat, then went on. "You'll have to talk to Mr Carson about this. It's within his power to give you the time off or not; not mine."

A cocky smile bent Jimmy's lips. "Well, I just thought, since you _are_ the under-butler, you might...convince him for me."

Thomas snorted. "Jimmy. I might have taken a beating for you. But I will _not_ take on Mr Carson. Besides, he doesn't like me. I suspect he likes me even less ever since my promotion, which I understand he didn't approve. So," he clapped Jimmy on the arm, "you're on your own. Good luck."

"Great," Jimmy muttered unhappily, and followed Thomas up the stairs. "Thanks."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three:**

It was very late when Jimmy and Alice left the saloon. They were both flushed and tired, but neither could suppress the smiles that kept stealing onto their faces.

"I didn't know you could dance so well," Jimmy said to Alice as he offered her his arm, which she took gladly.

"My sister wanted to learn how to dance, so she made me learn with her. I had to stop after only learning the Black Bottom, though, to come to Downton. But it is a terribly fun dance, I must admit."

"Yes, it is! I rather enjoyed trying it myself."

"And you!" Alice prodded. "With that fancy foxtrot of yours!"

Jimmy laughed.

"Would you teach me how to foxtrot?" she asked him. "I mean, properly? So I can do it as well as you?"

Jimmy caught up Alice's hands and pulled her to a stop. "Only on one condition. No, two."

"Okay."

"First, you teach me how to dance the Black Bottom as well as you."

Alice giggled. "Certainly." And she waited for him to say more, but Jimmy was suddenly mute. Her smile faded as he stared at her; and for some reason, just him looking at her like that, her heart began to race and her cheeks reddened. "What's the second condition?" she whispered.

"I want you to kiss me."

She wanted to say something to him, something clever and sarcastic, but nothing came immediately to mind. Jimmy wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in close, and bent his head to kiss her.

"You know," Alice said, turning a little away from him, "I thought you wanted _me_ to kiss _you_."

Jimmy frowned slightly, puzzled. "I do."

"But _you_ just tried to kiss _me_." And before he could respond, she pressed her lips against his. "There, that's better."

A dumb look alighted on Jimmy's face. Alice had to laugh, because it wasn't often that Jimmy looked silly. Usually, he tried to seem calm and cool. She often thought he was trying to mimic Mr Barrow, the under-butler, who always seemed so unruffled – even in spite of the cuts on his face. But Alice could never imagine the look she was seeing on Jimmy on Mr Barrow's face.

"Oh Alice!"

"Shush. Don't say anything." She took Jimmy's hand and drew him after her as she started walking again. "Now come on, before they fetch the police after us. It'll be midnight soon!"

It was after eleven-thirty when they finally reached Downton. The house was nearly silent, except for the muffled rustling of a handful of maids going about their nightly cleaning.

Alice and Jimmy crept in quietly, giggling softly and lacing fingers. Alice said goodnight to Jimmy at the door to the virgin's wing–giving him a quick peck on the cheek–and went to her room. Jimmy was too giddy to even contemplate sleep, so he went to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of milk and reflect upon the evening.

As he finished his milk, he noticed the light in the servant's hall was on. He left his glass on the counter and went to go turn it off – and was surprised to see Thomas seated at the table, a cup of tea placed before him, long gone cold. Thomas didn't look up. He didn't even seem to notice Jimmy there at all, standing in the doorway.

"Mr Barrow," Jimmy said gently.

Thomas jumped up, startled; but once he saw it was Jimmy, he chuckled in an embarrassed way and sat back down. "Jimmy. I didn't hear you come in."

Jimmy went in and pulled out a chair, seating himself opposite Thomas. "What are you still doing up? You should be in bed."

Thomas cradled his face in his hands, his elbows propped up on the table and, and roughly rubbed his eyes. "I can't seem to sleep anyways, so it hardly matters when I go to bed." He lowered his hands and looked at Jimmy through dark eyelashes, and Jimmy was able to see how bloodshot his eyes were, how black the circles underneath. "You're late, by the way. How was your evening with Alice?"

Unabashedly, Jimmy grinned, a dazzling grin. Thomas flinched and glanced away, but Jimmy saw nothing but Alice's pretty face.

"It was brilliant! We went to the pub to grab a drink. We were going to see a film, you see, but it was too early, so we decided to stop for a drink first. Well, when we finished, we were making our way to the film, but then we heard someone playing a jazzy little piano number in a saloon down the road; and the next thing I know, Alice is grabbing at my hands and pulling me inside and on to the floor to dance! We didn't even make it to the film, we were having such a good time."

Thomas toyed with his tea cup while Jimmy talked, spinning it around in its saucer, making the brown liquid ripple. It seemed a little like how he had been feeling lately – unsettled.

"By the way," Jimmy said after they had both been silent for some time, rapping a knuckle on the table in front of Thomas to draw his attention, "Mr Carson told me everything. When I asked him for the time off, he said that you had already sorted it out with him. Why didn't you tell me?"

Thomas was staring vacantly, silent except for his slow, soft breathing.

Jimmy sighed in exasperation. "Are you even listening to me, Mr Barrow?"

Thomas twitched at the sound of his name and shook himself, very like as if he had been dozing and then abruptly awakened. "I'm sorry, what did you say, Jimmy?"

"Mr Barrow, what's the matter with you? You aren't well at all."

_It's all your fault. With those eyes and lips, and that body. That smile._

_ No. That isn't fair._

"I'm tired. That is all."

_It's mine. I'm weak. So very, very weak. And tired, yes._

"Exhausted is more like. Come on, Mr Barrow. It's time for bed."

Thomas waved Jimmy away and pulled a packet of cigarettes from inside his jacket, fingers mindlessly sliding it open and retrieving a single cigarette before slipping the packet back into its pocket. He lit a match and held it up, his hands unsteady and trembling.

"You go on," Thomas mumbled around his lit cigarette. "I'll go up in a few minutes."

Jimmy sat for a little while, but when he understood that Thomas wasn't going to leave for some time still, he pushed back his chair and stood.

"You'd tell me if something were wrong. If there was something I could do to help."

Thomas looked up at him and took the cigarette from his lips. "Of course, Jimmy."

Unsatisfied, but unwilling to push Thomas further, Jimmy left, his footsteps light so as to not wake anyone.

It was nearly an hour after he left that Thomas followed suit. His arms shook as he pushed himself up, and his legs quivered and strained with every step he took. He didn't know how much longer this could go on. He desperately needed sleep. Just one night of absolute, uninterrupted sleep.

He made it to his room and collapsed onto his bed, not even bothering to remove his uniform. It was nights like these that he was very glad he no longer had to share a room with any of the other servants. He closed his eyes, and dozed. But the memories waited; they never let him be for very long.

Brown eyes and brown hair. Blue eyes and brown hair. Gone, all gone, all of them.

Blue eyes and blonde hair.

_You don't deserve him. You don't deserve anyone._

Blood.


	4. Chapter 4

******Author's note: Again, I'd like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed my story. Just a little something to clarify: a few people have asked me about the final word of my last chapter ("Blood."). It's not Thomas's blood. It's not physical. The blood is a part of the dreams and memories that Thomas has. Hope that helps! :)

**Chapter Four:**

Within weeks of their date, everyone in Downton knew how keen Alice and Jimmy were on each other. Whenever they were in a room together, the two of them flirted endlessly. A few thought it sweet and youthful; others, like Mr Carson, did not seem to really care for or against it, as long as they both did their work in a professional and undisrupted manner; Ivy, of course, was crestfallen, and thought it unfair that Alice–who had been at Downton for so short a time–had managed to grab the man Ivy herself had wanted; and then there was Thomas, who appeared pleased for them, but simmered with rotting envy within. If it were he and Jimmy touching and flirting openly, no one would think it sweet – they would be appalled and disgusted, and then the police would be called in to lock them both away.

Ever since the war, Thomas thought it unfavourably ironic the way relationships between men were perceived in general society versus in the trenches. In the trenches, men were expected to rely on each other, to look after and trust each other. It was their _duty _to commit themselves wholly to their comrades. The men had to risk their lives–and even give them–for other men; and that creates a bond that is not easy to define: beyond friendship, and in ways very similar to love. For when you are cold and alone and frightened in war, there is no one there to care for and comfort you except another man.

Outside the trenches, however, anything resembling male homosexuality was reviled. Children were raised to despise it and raise their fists against it; society pronounced it illegal; and those who were homosexuals quickly learnt fear, and how to hide themselves deep within lest they risk persecution.

Thomas was tired of hiding, though. He was tired of being forbidden love and affection simply because he wanted it from a man rather than a woman. He wanted someone to call his own beloved.

Jimmy let out an abrupt laugh, amused by whatever it was that Alice whispered in his ear.

But he could not have it. Society declared it so.

It was cold outside in the evening, and snow was falling in wet, thick flakes, the kind that leaves everything drenched and miserable. Thomas's breath misted in front of him, mingling with cigarette smoke. He was supposed to be helping with serving the Crawleys' dinner, but told Carson he was feeling decidedly unwell and slipped away outside.

He fell back against the cold stone of the house and let his legs give out beneath him, collapsing to the ground. He didn't care that his legs and backside were getting soaked through with slush and mud. He'd dealt with much worse in the trenches.

His old war wound ached a little, as it always did when it was cold. Thomas flicked away his cigarette, took off his glove, and studied the round, smooth scar that resided perfectly in the centre of his palm. He flexed his hand, grimacing as the stiff skin pulled taut and relaxed; then he pulled the glove back on. Seeing the scar reminded him of what he had done, how cowardly and shameful he had been, how completely incapable of suffering through the war, as so many had done.

A heavy, uneven gait reached Thomas's ears and brought him back to the present. It echoed from within the house and was moving closer; and so Thomas was unsurprised to see Bates come out of the back entrance. He was a little surprised, however, when Bates spied Thomas and walked toward where he sat.

"We were beginning to wonder where you'd got off to," Bates said, coming to stand in front of Thomas.

"Go away, Bates."

Bates peered about, at the snow falling silently in the courtyard, on the house, and on the barren trees in the distance. In the dark–the moon hidden behind clouds and everything so quiet–, Downton Abbey was like something from a gothic tale. All that was bright and lively and beautiful in the sun was now cast in gloomy shades of grey and black. The great house looked nearly deserted, despite lights glowing from a few windows. Bates looked down and studied Thomas in the dark, and he saw that Thomas had also lost his brightness–his haughtiness, his pride; but, unlike Downton, Thomas didn't seem like he would regain it when the sun came out again.

"You'll get wet and dirty," said Bates, gesturing with his cane at the muddy ground where Thomas sat.

Thomas shrugged. "Already am."

Bates went and leaned against the house next to Thomas, unable (and, admittedly, unwilling) to join Thomas on the ground. He said nothing for some time, unsure how to begin a conversation with someone he did not particularly like, and especially the conversation that he knew needed to take place. And so, casting aside all delicacies, he decided to get straight to the point.

"Thomas, what's the matter with you? You don't talk anymore, you don't eat, you do your work in a fog, and truly, you look like the dead. You pretend nothing is wrong, but the only one you're fooling is yourself. Everyone else can see that something's very wrong with you."

Thomas licked his stale lips and scoffed. "Why do you care? You don't like me, just as I don't like you. Oh, I do appreciate what you did," Thomas explained when he noticed Bates's jaw tense. "You saved my job, and probably my life too. But, let's admit, we've never been friends, and I don't think we ever shall be."

Bates chuckled dryly. "I agree." He studied Thomas again, and was a little taken aback by the dreadful vision his profile made in the night – all white skin and black hollows. Like a skull, a skull which turned and looked back at him, and opened its jaws and spoke to him.

"Then go away."

"Can't do that. We may not like each other, Thomas, but I'll put that aside when I see the state you're in. Everyone's worried about you, but they're all too scared to talk to you about it."

"And you're not?" Thomas reached into his jacket and retrieved another cigarette. "No, of course you're not," he mumbled as he struck a match.

Bates watched this and shook his head. "You smoke too much. More so since... Is it Mr Crawley, his accident?"

"No, though I do pity his child, growing up without a father." Thomas rested his head against the wall. "George, and baby Sybil. One without a mother, one without a father. The world can be so cruel at times."

"So what is it, then?" Bates pressed. "If it's not that, then what? It can't be Jimmy, he's not bothered you since that day at the fair. And I can't think that you'd be missing O'Brien."

"Mm." Thomas exhaled a stream of smoke. "You're not going to let it alone, are you?"

Bates shook his head. "And even if I did, Mrs Hughes has promised she would be after you next. I think I may be the lesser of two evils."

Thomas gave a brief smile, then sighed and conceded. "I can't sleep," he said in a low voice. "I have these...these dreams, these memories, that keep me awake. I'll go in for an hour, maybe two, but then they wake me, and won't leave me alone."

"And these dreams," Bates inquired, "what are they of?"

"Everything."

Bates raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean, 'everything'?"

"I mean everything. The war, the hospital, my mistakes, my regrets...everything."

The snow was starting to fall more heavily, layering the courtyard in white. Thomas began to shiver, his jacket having gotten damp and his backside going numb from the wet ground. He wrapped his arms around himself to try and warm himself up, though he knew it was really quite useless.

Bates was silent for a moment, thinking over what Thomas said, and hoping Thomas would explain more fully. But he did not.

"So by 'everything'," Bates gradually urged, "what you really mean is everything _bad_."

Thomas looked up sharply.

Bates ignored him and went on. "Look at what you said. The war, the hospital, mistakes and regrets. Where are the good memories? The ones you want to remember? You're stuck in the past, but only the bad memories. Why? What is so bad about your life?"

He realized too late he had sounded insensitive when Thomas lurched to his feet and faced Bates, his cheeks blanched from effort and rage, and his eyes flashing. "I didn't need to tell you anything," he hissed. "I don't need you to criticize me!"

Bates hurriedly put a hand on Thomas's shoulder, trying to placate him. "No, that's not what I meant to do." Thomas tried to pull away from Bates, but Bates tightened his grip. "Thomas, listen to me. I want to help you. We may not either of us like the other, but I pity you."

Thomas ground his teeth together, then slapped Bates's hand away. "I don't want your pity," he seethed, and stormed into the house, his hands clenched into fists at his side and his feet leaving dark footprints in the white snow.

Bates remained outside, puzzling over Thomas. Though things hadn't gone as he had hoped they would, at least now he understood a little what was happening with Thomas.

Mrs Hughes was waiting for him in the hallway when he went back inside.

"Did you find out the matter?" she asked when she saw him.

Bates nodded. "He can't sleep. Something from his past keeps haunting him."

Mrs Hughes furrowed her brow. "We all have things we wish to forget."

"I think he wants to forget more than we do, and he can't. I also think that, ever since the incident with James and his close-encounter with the police, his confidence has gone, and it's made him vulnerable."

"But you _went_ to prison, and you seem to be doing fine."

"I have Anna, Mrs Hughes. Thomas has no one. That changes everything. Not to mention, I was innocent of my crime; and Thomas and I both realize that...men like him, they don't always do well in prison."

As Mrs Hughes considered all this, they walked together toward the servant's hall. It was noisy, with servants bustling about clearing away the last of the family's dinner and preparing their own.

"Is there anything we can do for him?" Mrs Hughes eventually asked, her voice hushed in the company of the others.

"I think he needs to see a doctor. He can barely stand up straight. He told me he's lucky if he is able to get two hours of sleep a night, and I don't think it's good sleep. I don't know how long it's been going on for."

Bates fell silent when they entered the servant's hall and he saw Thomas sitting at the table, his blue eyes glazed and cold and locked on Bates.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: I'm sorry for the delay. I'm having some issues with my computer, so the next chapters may come inconsistently. I will do the best I can to get things up in a timely fashion :)

**Chapter Five:**

Thomas was deeply miserable, trying unsuccessfully not to shudder beneath the icy touch of the stethoscope.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked rather sharply, irritated at having to sit in the cold of the hospital without his shirt.

Dr Clarkson stood up straight and removed the stethoscope. "I would rather be certain of the status of your _entire _bodily health than leave certain areas unchecked and, therefore, _un_certain. But you can put your clothes back on."

Thomas quickly obeyed. "I have sleeping problems, though," he explained, his words muffled by the fabric of his undershirt as he pulled it over his head. "Why do you need to check my lungs?"

Dr Clarkson wrote something down on the clipboard he carried with him and said, "Because you never know what you may find; and because you smoke far too much."

Thomas craned his neck to see what the doctor was writing, but the clipboard was moved away, out of range of Thomas's prying eyes. "I will explain everything once I am finished, Mr Barrow. It will be easier that way."

The rest of the examination was performed quietly, with Dr Clarkson only speaking now and then to request that Thomas move in this way or that. He would write down anything that interested him, then continue on in persistent silence.

"Now," he declared once he had satisfied himself as to the state of Thomas's physiological health, "do you know what is the cause of your sleep deprivation?" He sat in front of Thomas, his hands folded on his lap, observing Thomas intently. "What keeps you awake at night? Do you have nightmares?"

Thomas shook his head. "Not nightmares, exactly. Memories."

"Memories? Of what?"

Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but then faltered and turned pale. To Dr Clarkson, it was immediately obvious that Thomas was struggling internally with some difficult decision, so he waited patiently; and eventually Thomas divulged the facts.

"Of the war. You know, all the blood and the screams and the mud. And the stench."

"Any particular memory of the war?" Dr Clarkson's gaze flickered to Thomas's left hand.

Unconsciously, Thomas began to rub the thumb of his good hand over the bullet scar, as if massaging away a remembered pain. When he realized what he was doing, he quickly stopped and gave Dr Clarkson a frail smile.

"This one, yes. But it's not the only memory."

"Tell me."

Thomas held his tongue.

Dr Clarkson leaned towards him in confidence. "Mr Barrow...Thomas, I can't help you if you won't talk to me."

But Thomas had turned his attention away from the doctor, toward the distant door surrounded by walls of dingy white. For a long time he didn't speak. Dr Clarkson was beginning to think they would get nowhere at all, when Thomas suddenly turned back and said, "Do you remember one patient you had during the war, a young man blinded by mustard gas? He killed himself–slit his wrists open–when you told him he needed to leave Downton? Lieutenant Edward Courtenay."

Dr Clarkson signified that he did remember the man.

"I keep seeing him in my head, you know. The scars on his face, his blind eyes. He's right in here." Thomas jabbed a finger into his temple, his mouth a tense line. "Same as the rest of them."

"The rest of who?"

But‒now caught up in a rapid flow of remembrances‒Thomas didn't hear Dr Clarkson, and talked on, a slight frenzied air to him now. "He didn't need to die, you know. If we had let him stay instead of sending him to Farley Hall, he wouldn't have done it."

"You don't know that, Thomas."

"I do! I do know it! He didn't want to go!"

"Many didn't want to go," Dr Clarkson explained gingerly, though he was vaguely surprised at Thomas's sudden emotional outburst. "But they had to. We didn't have the space or the resources to keep them. What happened to Lieutenant Courtenay was not your fault. Nor was it mine, or Mrs Crawley's, or anyone else's. We did the best we could with what we had."

Thomas nodded reluctantly, but Dr Clarkson noted that Thomas's eyes were unusually glassy.

Dr Clarkson leaned back in his chair and observed Thomas. He remembered the man Thomas had been once: devious, insincere, intelligent, and proud. This man before him bore little resemblance to the former one. This man was nervous, weak, and timid. Something had to happen to have caused such a drastic change of character in a man such as Thomas.

"What else do you remember?"

"Being in the trenches."

"Specifics?"

Thomas shifted on the bed, lacing his fingers together on his thighs. "The men I knew, sometimes. How they'd be alive–and we'd be having a laugh or talking–one day; and the next they'd be lying there, a bullet in their brains or their legs blown off."

"You felt powerless to help them."

Thomas snorted in condescension. "No one feels powerful in the trenches. Everyday you're confronted with your own limitations, and you know that the only reason you're alive has nothing to do with your courage, but because you're actually a coward who hides behind sandbag walls; and because the enemy decided not to bomb you to Hell."

Dr Clarkson nodded his head slowly. But there was something about everything Thomas had said that perplexed him.

"What you are describing sounds to me almost like shell shock."

Thomas frowned intently and repeated, "Shell shock?"

"Yes. This is by no means a definitive diagnosis. We've not nearly enough information for that yet. But what with your atrocious memories of the war and your inability to sleep due to these memories, it does seem to be somewhat likely. I'd say it is at least a contributing factor to whatever the larger issue–if there is one–may be." He paused, unsure how to voice what puzzled him.

Thomas sat silent, watching Dr Clarkson.

"What I am confused about, Thomas, is the fact that this stress is so greatly delayed. The war was some years ago, and you have never showed symptoms of shell shock prior to this. Has something else happened, something to trigger the resurgence of these memories?"

He noticed that Thomas had instantly tensed up. His fingers were digging into the bed, his brows were lifted, and his shoulders were taut. He suddenly seemed much like a cornered fox: frightened, but prepared to attack if provoked. This was the thing–whatever _it_ was–that was the real issue.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," Dr Clarkson reassured. "But I do truly want to help you, and without all the information, I can't."

Thomas didn't speak, didn't try to explain; and though he knew there was much, _much_ more than what Thomas had said, Dr Clarkson also knew he would get no more from Thomas today. He had shut down. "All right," he said as he got up from his chair, "I think that is enough for today. But Thomas, I hope you know you can trust me, if you ever need to talk. About anything."

Thomas climbed off the hospital bed and went to get his coat.

"I would like to see you again."

He turned to look at Dr Clarkson. "Is that necessary?"

"You doubt the necessity of many things today, it seems. But I think it is. We've not found a solution to your sleeping problem."

Thomas pursed his lips, but grudgingly agreed to another appointment. "I didn't even want to come today, did you know? I only came because Lord Crawley–according to Mr Carson–was most insistent that I come."

Dr Clarkson chuckled. "I am sure. But this is serious, Thomas. Sleep deprivation can kill you. You've already felt the effects on your health: you're much weaker, your heart rate is elevated, your ability to retain information is decreasing, you're experiencing depression, and you're irritable. It's only going to get worse if we don't find a solution. I'm almost tempted to send you to a psychiatrist."

"A psychiatrist? I don't want to see a psychiatrist."

"You may need to. But we haven't determined that yet. I will come see you at Downton next Thursday afternoon."

Thomas shook the hand that Dr Clarkson proffered, then hurriedly left the hospital.

It was a cold wind outside, and the village was quiet. A single car rumbled slowly down the street, the man inside smoking a leisurely cigarette. Three girls were walking on the opposite side of the street, talking and giggling, purchased items in their hands, and their eyes slanting sideways every so often to catch Thomas's gaze. Thomas turned from them and pulled up his coat collar against the wind, and made the cold journey back to Downton, wondering all the while whether he had said too much.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six:**

The staff of Downton Abbey were unusually quiet when Thomas returned from Dr Clarkson's, and everywhere he went he felt their gazes following him, studying him doggedly; but as soon as he turned to confront them, they were looking somewhere else, pretending that they hadn't been watching him. So Thomas decided that it was simpler to ignore them entirely, and went straight to his room.

As soon as he lay down on his bed, a knock came at the door.

"Whoever it is, go away!" he commanded.

It didn't work, for a half-second later the door cracked open, and Jimmy poked his head in.

Thomas watched Jimmy through slitted lids as he came into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Mr Barrow‒"

"Did I say you could come in, Jimmy?"

He had the satisfaction of seeing Jimmy burn with shame; but still he remained.

Thomas sighed and stared up at the ceiling. "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"How do you think?"

He heard Jimmy shuffling his feet and then taking a few steps closer to the bed. "You don't look too happy. What did the doctor say?"

"Nothing I didn't already know."

"Did he help you?"

"Is this the look of someone who has had their problems solved?" he asked in a sour tone, twisting to face Jimmy.

Jimmy frowned and crossed his arms over his chest in a vexed manner. "I don't know. You always look like that now."

Thomas's lips twitched with faint amusement. "I tend to smile when things are good, Jimmy. Just like everyone else."

Jimmy glared, but he couldn't resist the smile that eventually forced its way out.

They stared at each other for a long moment; and, seeing him as he was now, Thomas remembered how beautiful he thought Jimmy was. But he didn't want to think about that.

He let out a false yawn, and said, "I really appreciate your concern, Jimmy. But if you don't mind, I'd like to rest for a while." And without waiting for a response, Thomas rolled over and covered his face with his arm, a clear sign that he was finished.

Jimmy wanted to say more, practically trembled with it; but he also knew that Thomas desperately needed rest. And so he went, closing the door silently behind him.

* * *

He was frightened awake by loud, piercing screams. At first he thought it was part of his dream, but he'd been having a pleasant dream, not a nightmare ‒ certainly not something to scream about. It was only when he heard feet running past his door that he realized that the scream had been real‒that it had come from someone in the house.

He threw on a shirt and ran out to the hallway. A gathering of men was there, standing at the door to Thomas's room. Alfred came up behind to him, bleary-eyed and uncomprehending.

"What's going on, Jimmy? What's happened?"

Jimmy couldn't answer. He didn't know. He pushed his way forward through the crowd, toward the door, not caring that he was being rough. His heart was pounding and his stomach was in knots.

When he got to the room, one of the hall boys was there, his hand touching Thomas's arm. Thomas, who was coated in sweat and white as a sheet.

"What happened?" Jimmy asked the hall boy fiercely.

"I don't know. I was sleepin', an' I heard a scream, so I came. I only just got here meself."

"Is he hurt?"

"Don't look like it. But he don't look well, neither."

"You're not exactly a picture yourself," Thomas suddenly whispered in a strained voice, opening his eyes and greatly startling both the hall boy and Jimmy.

"What is going on here?" came Mr Carson's deep voice, booming from the hallway. He came into the room, but he hesitated when he saw Thomas lying in bed, looking very sickly. "Mr Barrow."

Thomas struggled to sit up. Jimmy leant a hand and helped him to prop himself up against the iron headboard. "Everything's all right, Mr Carson. It was just a nightmare," Thomas said.

Mr Carson searched Thomas's face closely, looking for something, some hint or clue as to Thomas's health and mental stability. Thomas accepted this blatant examination without a word or gesture of malice.

"Do you need to see the doctor?" Mr Carson eventually asked, clearly concerned with what he saw in Thomas.

"I do not. It was only a nightmare, Mr Carson. I'll be fine in a few minutes."

_Once everyone leaves_, was unspoken, but Mr Carson understood and, after waiting to make certain Thomas wasn't going to change his mind about the doctor, quickly moved to usher everyone away.

"Come along, Jimmy. Mr Barrow needs his rest."

Jimmy tried to linger, wanting to talk to Thomas; but Thomas caught Jimmy's eye and shook his head. Jimmy pressed his lips together, but unhappily obeyed and left with everyone else.

Alfred grabbed Jimmy's arm as they reached their room.

"What happened, Jimmy?"

Jimmy gently extracted his arm from Alfred's grip. "He says it was a nightmare."

Alfred's forehead creased. "That must've been some nightmare."

"Yes. It must've been." He turned the knob on his door and opened it. "Come on, go to bed."

* * *

Mr Carson stood outside Thomas's closed door, listening for any unusual noises and feeling rather odd over this concern he felt for Thomas Barrow. It was strange, how a year ago Thomas would never have been the one to inspire such feelings in Mr Carson; but after nearly having to leave his job with no recommendation, narrowly escaping prison, surviving a vicious beating, and now this, Mr Carson was beginning to feel almost protective of Thomas. He had had some hardships, recently; and Mr Carson was not made of stone.

All was quiet inside Thomas's room. Mr Carson turned away, and saw Mrs Hughes, Daisy, and a few of the other women standing at a distance, brought to the men's quarters by the sound of screams.

"Is everything a'right?" Daisy inquired as Mr Carson approached them, her words coloured with alarm.

"It was Thomas. He had a nightmare."

Daisy's mouth fell open in astonishment. "A nightmare?"

"Yes. It seems that whatever has been affecting him has just gotten worse." He addressed this to Mrs Hughes, whose face fell when she heard his words.

"Oh, dear me. What should we do now, Mr Carson? We can't leave him like this."

Mr Carson was wondering the same thing. "We wait, Mrs Hughes. That is all we can do for now. Wait, and watch."


End file.
